


The Valentine Deception

by h3rring, makokitten



Series: Texts from John and Sherlock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h3rring/pseuds/h3rring, https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious group called the Red-Headed League with seemingly anti-capitalist motivations - robbing from the wealthy and giving to the poor - has the police chasing its own tail.  Can Sherlock uncover the League's real agenda and the identity of its leader before it's too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This case has been re-posted from Texts from John and Sherlock @ Tumblr because it stands alone very easily. Details have been borrowed, quite liberally, from the original Sherlock canon, particularly "The Red-Headed League." Enjoy!

* * *

**The Case Files of Sherlock Holmes**

* * *

**The Red Revolution: Ongoing Case**

* * *

_February 7th_

* * *

Three weeks ago:  Series of letters from an anonymous sender were brought to my attention.  The enclosed threats - boring and pedantic.  I chose not to investigate.  Nothing happened anyway.

Today:  A group of revolutionaries with anti-capitalist manifesto has risen up seemingly overnight, taking credit for earlier threats.  Strangely had no trouble emptying out the largest safe at a high-class jewelry emporium.  Left behind an entire library of Communist propaganda to be found.  On the Internet, their statement of autonomy is spreading like wildfire: ‘The Red-Headed League’.  According to it, they’re ‘tired of being ignored’, and promise to show the world ‘just how serious they can be’.  Very soon.

Point of interest:  No one has ever heard of them before today.

I’m taking the case.

* * *

_February 8th_

* * *

* * *

_February 10th_

* * *

Update:  Visited with the jewelry emporium’s sole proprietor, Martin Clay.  Doddering father of MP John Clay, also present.  Neither of them could tell me anything of interest - they didn’t know about The Red-Headed League, or why the store became a target.  Security footage shows three men, two women. Standard breaking and entering procedure.  Definitely a professional job.  There’s one strange thing: their hair.  Garishly bright red hair, left uncovered.  Artificial and intentional?  Probably.  ‘Red-Headed’ League.

Update:  Stolen jewelry recovered!  A nun from Wherwell, Sister Martha, alerted the local authorities upon discovery.  Apparently it was strewn about old monastic gardens, which she tends to every day like clockwork.  She insists on a strict vow of poverty, however.  I believe her innocence… regardless, did the League want her to find it?  Misguided attempt to rob from the rich and then give to the poor?  By the way, the jewelry in question is rather hideous - intended for Valentine’s Day gifting, apparently.  No one needs that many encrusted diamonds and rubies.

Update:  Six hours later, the League strikes again: Queensway International Christian Centre.  More like a large office complex than a church.  Stolen: valuable painting depicting St Valentine baptising St Lucilla (ca 1575), by Jacopo Bassano.  Extensive vandalism in the atrium, Communist slogans and threats of violence written in red spray paint.  Currently trying to trace the spray paint’s origins.

The pattern is almost too obvious.  Overpriced Valentine’s Day jewelry delivered to a pious nun.  Wealthy church loses a painting of St Valentine.  Logical association between nuns and churches, and the anti-capitalist message.  Expecting the painting to reappear, but when and where?

* * *

_February 12th_

* * *

Update:  As per my suggestion, calls were made to every independently owned and operated candy store within a few hours’ distance.  Stolen painting of St Valentine turned up in the East End, in a small store overloaded with Valentine’s Day paraphernalia.  The store’s owners were very confused - had found the painting in their storefront, hadn’t known what it was or what to do with it.

Connection:  They’re struggling financially due to competition from a larger, cheaper corporate entity that moved in nearby.  If a nun pointed to a church, then what does a candy store point to?  In need of more data…

Update:  The competition’s candy was kept in special climate-controlled warehouses, awaiting distribution.  The League cleared out an entire street’s worth of these warehouses, removing only goods related to Valentine’s Day.  No physical witnesses, but security footage shows the same red-headed men and women.  Loaded the candy onto unmarked flatbed trucks.  More vandalism: familiar slogans, epithets, and threats.  Ended on an ominous new note, though: ‘AFTER DELIVERANCE WE’LL HAVE A PERIOD OF REST BEFORE THE FINAL PUSH’.

The final push - Valentine’s Day.


	2. Part 2

* * *

            Sherlock Holmes hasn’t eaten for two days.  John knows because he’s been keeping track.  One of them has to.

            Right now, Sherlock’s probably holed himself up in their flat, staring at the wall, still refusing to eat because he’s a stubborn bastard when he’s on a case.  Not that there’s anything eatable for him in the flat if he changes his mind.  That’s why John’s braving the cold: to pick up some food and see to it that his fantastic loon of a flatmate doesn’t starve himself to death.

            Luckily, the store’s very warm and bright inside.  John takes his time figuring out what they need, partially as an excuse to avoid going out and facing the wind again.  Milk, definitely.  Probably more coffee, since Sherlock’s using all of it up in record time.  Bread’s gone moldy, so they’ll need more of that… more of all of the essentials, really.  Cheese, rice, beans.  John picks up a container of prepared pasta salad, too.  Sherlock’s favorite.  That’s the best enticement John can imagine.

            Well, that and pastries.  Sherlock’s taken a liking to sweet things recently, donuts and Danishes in particular.  John brushes by the baked goods, picking up what he needs, careful to avoid the lovers shopping last-minute for heart-shaped treats.  In a way, it’s as much a relief not to have a girlfriend or a date or anyone to worry about as it is a disappointment.  Tomorrow evening will be like any of the others: sitting at home, watching telly, updating the blog, or maybe, just maybe, running around after Sherlock on some case or another.  But nothing special.

            That’s fine.  Or so he tells himself. 

            John ventures down the frozen food aisle next.  The body parts in their freezer need to have some company. He loads up on green beans and peas, then pauses by the ice cream.  Sweet enough—if Sherlock refuses solid food, maybe they can compromise with this.  It’s chock-full of sugar, yes, but at least it’s got a few more nutrients than tea.  John reaches in to examine the nutrition information on the coffee-flavored ice cream and, rocking back and forth on his heels, doesn’t look up in time to avoid another of the patrons, who’s about to walk right into him.

            The collision isn’t disastrous at first—she bumps his shoulder and they’re both prepared to say “sorry” and move on—but then her left foot catches on his and she falls down with a cry, her groceries flying everywhere.  They clatter to the floor, some rolling a few feet away, earning John and the girl a few judgmental looks from other customers.

            John’s reaction is immediate: he puts down his own basket and rushes to make sure she’s all right.  “Oh my God,” he says, putting a hand on her shoulder, “I am so sorry, I just wasn’t paying attention—”

            She turns to look at him, her pretty face framed by a curtain of long, red hair.  John feels his heart catch in his throat, or maybe some other body part.  Jesus.  “It’s fine,” she says, waving him off and pushing herself up.  “Really, it is.  I’m just clumsy.  Don’t worry, you don’t have to worry.”

            “No, here, let me.”  Since she says fine, he goes about helping her collect her food instead.  A package of chocolates, a couple of tubs of ice cream.  “Stocking up for Valentine’s Day?” he asks, trying to disguise his embarrassment.  He can feel his cheeks coloring.  For God’s sake, what’s wrong with him?  He isn’t twelve.  He shouldn’t be getting flustered because the girl he knocked over—woman, really, she couldn’t be too far shy of thirty—happens to have long legs and full lips.  They really are nice, though, her legs.  And her lips.  Goddamn it. 

            “How could you tell?” she asks, kneeling beside him as she quickly stashes a book in her basket—but not before John notices it’s a cheap romance novel.  Now it’s her turn to go red, and she’s of such a pale complexion that she colors to the tips of her ears.  “Hallmarks of the single woman, I guess.  You caught me.  It’ll just be me and a book and a bubble bath this year.”

            “I think that’s an admirable way to spend Valentine’s Day,” John says quickly, but he’s really thinking: _don’t think about bubble baths, Jesus, don’t think about bubble baths_.  “You know, everything else gets so overblown.  All of the other options, I mean.  Oh, no…”

            One of her tubs of ice cream (strawberry) had opened when it hit the ground.  It’s lying on its side, melting a little against the floor.  John picks it up and sticks the lid back on it, feeling even guiltier.  “Think anyone saw that?” he asks, glancing around.  “Maybe I can just put it back and—”

            She shakes her head, on the verge of giggling.  “No, no, don’t do that.”

            “You’re right.  Absolutely right.  Look, I’ll pay for this one.”

            “You don’t have to do _that_ either,” she says, taking it right out of his hands and sticking it back in her shopping basket.  “I’m fine, I said so.”

            “Yes, but I feel bad for knocking into you.”

            “No, I was the one who crashed into you.  All you did was stand there and be solid.  And oh—no, I mean solid in a good way, and—hell.”  She rubs at her forehead.  “We’re just tripping all over each other with words now, aren’t we?”

            “It looks like,” John replies, somewhat relieved that he’s not the only one stumbling around in this conversation.  “Here, we can start over again.  Pretend none of that happened.  I’m John and… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

            “That’s because I didn’t give it,” she teases, smiling brightly regardless.  She shakes his hand, but instead of offering her own name, she rolls her eyes, pushing her hair back from her face.  “You’re going to laugh at me, though.” 

            “What?  For your name?  No, I won’t.” 

            “You _will_ , I promise.  Everyone does.”

            “Well, I’m not everyone,” John insists, returning the smile.  “Here, go on.  Try me.”

            “All right.”  She takes a deep breath, an actor preparing for the soliloquy of a lifetime.  “Persephone Jones.”

            John isn’t quite sure how to respond to that.  After a too-long pause, he opens his mouth.  “Well…”

            “See?  I told you.”  Persephone Jones pulls her dark coat a little closer to her body.  “Everyone always thinks it’s so funny.”

            “I don’t think it’s _funny_ exactly, but… your name isn’t _really_ Persephone?” 

            “It’s a mouthful, don’t you think?  Mum’s a huge fan of Greek myths.  My little brothers all got names like Jason and Hector, normal names, and I get stuck with the queen of the bloody underworld.”  She shrugs.  “But I’m too lazy to change it.  It’s been mine this long and I’m used to it.”

            “I think it’s lovely,” John says, and when she raises an eyebrow, he adds, “No, no, I’m absolutely serious.  It’s not every day you come across a name like that.”

            The smile returns again, crinkling the corners of her eyes and setting her whole face alight.  She has gorgeous eyes, John thinks.  They’re large and green-brown and smile along with her mouth.  Not everyone has eyes that do that.  “Just call me ‘Penny,’” she says.  “Everyone else does.  It’s much easier.”

            “Well, Penny.”  She nods.  “Since you won’t let me pay for the ruined ice cream, I was hoping that I could make it up to you some other way.”

            “What sort of other way?”

            “I was thinking I could buy you coffee,” John says.  His heart’s wearing itself out inside of his chest.  It shouldn’t matter so much whether she says yes or no, this total stranger, but he likes her.  “Unless you’re in a hurry to get home.”

            She seems surprised that he offers, but then, taking a deep, relieved breath of her own, she says, “I’m not in a hurry.”  A pause.  “Well, not anymore.” 

            “All right,” says John.  “Good.”

            “Good,” Penny agrees, and she’s still grinning. 

* * *

            “So what’s an attractive girl like you doing alone on Valentine’s Day again?” 

            “ _Stop_ ,” she says with a fluttery laugh, elbowing him, but she sounds flattered at the least.  They’re drinking their coffee outside so the ice cream won’t melt, sharing a bench, and it’s cold but John’s glowing so much inside that he doesn’t mind.  He missed this.  He really did.  “It’s sort of a long story, actually.”

            “I like long stories.”

            “Doesn’t have a happy ending or anything.”

            “Long, sad story.  I’ll consider myself warned, then.”

            Penny sips her latte.  “I guess it’s not really all that long,” she says, upon further reflection.  “I did have plans for Valentine’s Day, to start.  I was supposed to go to this gala—did you hear about it?  It’s in honor of Sir Augustus Moran.”

            “Augustus Moran.”  John furrows his brow.  “Sounds familiar.”

            “Well, he used to be the ambassador to somewhere or another, but more recently he’s become a sort of champion for civil rights and equality.  He’s really cool, actually—I think he’s cool.  He’s sort of, you know, older, old money, very knowledgeable, mellow, and people listen to him and respect his opinions more than they’d respect… well, you know, the opinion of some random young person standing alone.  Like me.”

            “I see what you’re saying.  So you were supposed to be his date to this gala, and…”

            “No!” Penny exclaims, her bare fingers tapping against the Styrofoam cup.  Her fingerless gloves can’t be keeping her warm.  John wonders idly whether it’d be too soon to hold her hand.  “No, not like that.”  He laughs, and she rewards him with a smile again, oddly shy.  They’ve both been smiling on and off this whole time.  “I _had_ a date to the gala, my boyfriend, but we broke up last week and I don’t really want to go alone, not on a night that’s supposed to celebrate love.  The whole thing’s a fundraiser to raise awareness about gay marriage—you know about that.” 

            “A bit, yeah.”  John nods, taking a long swig of his own coffee.  “My sister entered into a civil partnership with her long-time girlfriend, and that didn’t really work out in the end—but it’s not exactly the same thing as marriage, is it?”

            “Legally, yes, so why not just _call_ it that?  It doesn’t make much sense to me, really.  Marriage is marriage.  So that’s what this is for, this gala, to raise money and awareness and whatnot, and of course there are going to be all of these couples and probably all of the same pink-and-red heart decorations you’d find anywhere else, and being there alone would be sort of a letdown.”  She sighs.  “I was really looking forward to it, too.  I thought I’d have this night where I’d get all dressed up and rub elbows with famous, important people and feel like a princess, but I’m pretty sure I’d just end up feeling lonely instead.  I’m trying to see if any of my married friends want the tickets, but they all have plans already.”

            “I’d be happy to take the tickets off your hands,” John says, leaning forward with interest. 

            She blinks at him, and he can’t tell whether she’s happy or disappointed.  Maybe she thinks that means he’s married, or at least attached.  “Oh?” 

            “Only if you’ll have the one I’m not using.  I’m definitely not worth two tickets alone.”

            Penny clasps a hand over her mouth, and for a second John’s afraid he’s really embarrassed her.  After all, she said she’d broken up with her boyfriend just last week—isn’t it too soon to ask her out?  Stupid, stupid.  John’s about to apologize when Penny drops her hand and says, “You wouldn’t believe it, but I was trying to figure out how to get around to asking.”

            “I don’t have to be your _date_ ,” John rushes, just in case.  “I mean, we could go as friends, that’d be fine.” 

            “You could be my date, too,” Penny replies.  “That’d also be fine.”

            “Well.”  John can’t figure out what to say next.  None of his clever ideas seem to be reaching his mouth.  “I guess I’ll have to start looking for a tuxedo, then.  Probably a pretty fancy party.”

            “I think so.”  Penny studies him, as if imagining him in a nice suit instead of a heavy winter coat.  “That’ll be nice,” she concludes.  “Really nice.”

            “What time should I pick you up?”

            “Around seven, I think.  Here, I’ll give you my number and address so you know where to look.”

            “Oh, yes, that would be immensely helpful.  Thank you.”

            She sets her coffee aside to rummage in her purse for a pen.  When she finds one, she writes her information on a napkin that she balances on her knee.  John, feeling that it’s now appropriate, steals in and covers her empty hand with his.

            He wouldn’t want her getting too cold, after all.


	3. Part 3

            Valentine's Day.

            Tomorrow is Valentine's Day.Tomorrow will be the League's FINAL PUSH, the _coup de théâtre_.Every theft has been related to Valentine's Day--the jewelry, the painting, especially the candy.The Met located the stolen candy earlier today, floating across the surface of Pen Ponds in Richmond Park.Glare of the sunlight on the silver foil candy wrappers: highly noticeable.(Sherlock thought it was almost beautiful.)However, this time, no obvious vandalism at the site. Unless the candy in the water was the vandalism.Could be.AFTER DELIVERANCE WE'LL HAVE A PERIOD OF REST...

            What was the League trying to do?Steal from the rich and give to the poor fish, ducks, and deer?And what does the location mean?What does the park point to?The nun points to the church, yes.The candy store points to the warehouses.Something's wrong about this.The park will point to--anywhere with high foot traffic?Doesn't feel right.Sherlock sighs, shaking his head.Go over it again.Valentine's Day: a romantic occasion.Richmond Park: a romantic destination, according to (various) travel guides.Hills with stunning views, those are supposed to be romantic.Watching the sun go down and the stars come out--or whatever it is normal people do.(Astronomy tends to inspire romance, doesn't it?Constellations and planets and things?)

            Wait.Wait, this is familiar...

            Richmond Park.Robin Hood Gate.Sherlock's birthday with the cryptic text messages and a photograph from Irene Adler. _Come and find me_ , remember?Richmond Park.Robin Hood Gate. _Come and find me._ A birthday gift that Sherlock didn't accept.Went home for the night empty-handed and then returned the next day--maybe there'd be evidence of Irene, game-changing clues, an important message.His gift was sitting in front of the lodge's upstairs window.Just an expensive box of chocolates (not poisonous).Heart-shaped truffles.In January.For his birthday.Robin Hood Gate. _Come and find me._ The League's behavior involves stealing from the rich, giving to the poor.Pen Ponds.Stolen candy glittering on the surface of the water.(Almost beautiful.)

            Not for the first time, Sherlock feels like he's being toyed with by these criminals.Is that your handiwork, Irene Adler?Are you involved?But how?Why?Valentine's Day? _Never mind._

            The League wants to show the whole wide world how serious they are; they shouldn't be ignored any longer.Conclusion: many people will be affected by their FINAL PUSH.What are the other popular romantic destinations on Valentine's Day?Internet searches provide multiple lists of venues in and around London.Nothing stands out to Sherlock, though.Damn it.Has been searching all afternoon, but nothing stands out.Lestrade's not going to be very happy.If they're going to patrol, in hopes of catching the League _in flagrante delicto_ , the Met will be stretched so far and thin.And something still feels wrong about this.

            Below: the front door opens and closes.John has come home.Took longer than usual for some reason, but he's home now.Good.It'll be good to have a fresh perspective on this aspect of the case.Sherlock talks and John listens, and sometimes John will say something profoundly stupid that ends up being useful.Good system.Maybe they can go and scope out some potential venues for the League's FINAL PUSH, too.

            Hmm, John is moving up the stairs rather quickly.Too light-footed compared to the weight of his numerous shopping bags--he's eager about something, then.Couldn't be about dinner.Only went out in the first place to restock the essentials and get Sherlock's favorite foods.Plans to coax Sherlock into eating something tonight in spite of the case.(Sherlock hasn't eaten in two days, maybe three.Not a big deal.His mind is razor-sharp and ready.)Rustling plastic bags.Creaking steps.What happened?Judging by the sounds and historical tendencies: pasta salad, ice cream (coffee flavor), Danish pastries (hard to resist those).So, it couldn't be the shopping.John didn't have a fight with the chip and PIN machine, either, but that's not exciting.Must be good news from someone.

            Earlier, when John went out, Sherlock spotted a certain _resignation_ in John's body language.Lonely sort of resignation.Brought to mind John's self-deprecating mentions of spending Valentine's Day alone--

            An erroneous assumption!If only John would be logical!Of course he won't be alone on Valentine's Day; he will be with _Sherlock_ , which is plenty of fun.Last-minute attempts to stop the League from perpetrating the FINAL PUSH?Looking forward to it.

            John walks into the den and Sherlock looks up, and the "good news" is written all over John's features, frankly everywhere.From the way John swings the shopping bags to the lack of tension in his forehead.Good news?Hardly.

            "No," Sherlock says.

            John pauses for a second (still smiling), and then proceeds into the kitchen.

            " _No_ what, Sherlock?"

            "No, it's just not viable."Sherlock sighs and turns back to his laptop.This is annoying.Disappointing."Got her phone number, didn't you?" he asks loudly.Very disappointing."Call her and tell her that you've a prior arrangement for tomorrow."

            "Do I?"Thump.Clunk.John begins to unpack the shopping.

            "Yes, you do, and it's called the _case._ We have the case, John, and tomorrow will be the most decisive day for it.There's no room to have one of your undoubtedly uninspiring date nights."

            "I'm not calling her back, Sherlock."

            Sherlock frowns at the screen.What the hell?Where did this creeping sense of betrayal come from?Feeling disappointed: not a surprise.But _betrayal?_ Well, John is his full-time assistant now... therefore John's supposed to assist him full-time.Not go out on dates in the middle of cases.(Yes, clearly.)

            Sense of betrayal.Taste of rising bile.Bitter.Licks his bottom lip and asks, "What is her name?"

            Clunk.Carton of pasta salad into the refrigerator."Penny," John replies, blithe.

            "No, that's her _nick_ name.She told you something else, much more _exotic_ , at first."

            "How do you--"John knows better than to bother asking.Rustles through the bags again."Her name is Persephone. _Penny_ is just a nickname, yeah.It's cute."

            _Persephone?_ Sherlock wrinkles his nose.Rather distasteful, that.Obviously another fake name.From the ancient mythology: _Persephone_ , dread queen of the Underworld.Oh, how spooky.How edgy.What is she, a gothic teenager?Is John trying to woo little girls now?Should feel ashamed, John Watson.

            In the background: "So come off it," John is saying."It's just a Valentine's Day gala, Sherlock.If you absolutely need my help, you'll be able to reach me.Not going to turn off my phone."

            Gala.

            Sherlock turns his head to the side, staring into nothing, listening to something distant.

            "Valentine's Day _gala_?"

            "A party, I guess.A big one.It's being held in honor of... oh, what was his name... Moran?--Augustus Moran?"

            "Sir Augustus Moran," Sherlock says, and exhales hard. _Gala_.That word.He does know that word beyond its various definitions.

            "His gala is tomorrow.And you were invited to it."

            "Yes?Am I missing something?"

            "It's not _just_ a big party."Sherlock returns to the foreground.Everything is a little bit brighter than before.Not sure why yet." _A fundraiser_ , John."His fingers fly across the keyboard, bringing up the local news."For wanting to listen to the news, you certainly didn't understand a word of it.Right, it's a fundraiser for Sir Augustus Moran.His son will be in attendance, too.I'd wanted to go and meet them, actually, but the case is more important than..."

            He trails off and stares into nothing again.

            "Sherlock?"John, leaning into the den.Armful of empty plastic bags.Rustling.Not now.Quick, tune him out."Hey, are you there?Earth to Sherlock.Come in, Sherlock."

            And then the words, the world, just _click_.

            There's no better feeling in the world than having an epiphany.It's almost like dying--like hypoxia, really, where you can't breathe anymore and don't quite want to either.Every last nerve ending, synapse, and cell just stops, _stops_ , suspended in wonder, overwhelmed and overloaded.Fissions of awe, of horror.Awesome horror at his own genius.Cascading self-reflective moments of _how can I be this clever?_

            God, it feels so good.

            No endeavor of the flesh could ever make him feel this good.

            "Oh," he murmurs, shivering."Oh, yes..."Makes sense now.Everything.

            John is still standing there."Sherlock?What...?"

            "Red herring, John."

            "Red what?"

            " _RED HERRING!_ " Sherlock exclaims, slamming both palms against the table.Crackles with energy throughout his entire body.Bright.His surroundings are brighter now, oh yes.What felt wrong before makes perfect sense now.

            John just doesn't get it.He's waiting for an explanation, though.He knows how to wait for an explanation, since Sherlock needs to translate whirling thoughts into words.Sherlock looks up, smiles at him: this is the afterglow.

            Reaches for the nearest piece of paper.A ballpoint pen.Writes out the following:

            **THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE**

            "Look," he says, breathless, pointing at the words."Look at this.What is the meaning of 'red-headed,' John?Red hair.All of the League's members have bright red hair.Likewise, what is a synonym for a 'league'?A ring.The Red-Headed League is teeming with highly organized criminals.A crime ring.The League is a ring.Look at this, John."

            **~~THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE~~**

            **THE RED HAIR RING**

            "The red hair ring," John reads aloud, each syllable stilted.

            "The red herring," Sherlock echoes smoothly."What the League is, what it's doing... _that_ is the red herring.A diversion meant to distract me from what's _really_ going on.Oh, I knew that I was being toyed with, but I didn't realize just how much. _Wordplay._ "

            "So, what, someone's playing a game with you?"

            "Definitely."

            "But what does that mean, Sherlock?"John frowns and shifts his weight from foot to foot (left to right).Every inch of him is confused in an endearing way."What are they trying to distract you from?"

            Sherlock brushes a few fingers over his mouth, contemplating the setup again."Valentine's Day.What they're going to do for it.Can't be a coincidence.This time he didn't bother to tell me that we're playing a game.Wants to see if I can figure it out on my own in time to stop him.If I happen to fail, then someone will die and he will win before I've even seen the board."

            John tilts his head: inquisitive; for once, perceptive."You keep saying 'he'..."

            Should really stop smiling.Can't help it.Tries to hide it with his fingertips.

            "Just hold on a moment," John says quietly, intensely; "are you talking about _him?_ "

            "Only Jim Moriarty has the resources to put together an efficient, radicalized group of professional thieves on such short notice.No one has heard of them before now, but they're tremendously loyal to their cause.It makes sense.And I know what he's doing with them--the real agenda at work here.The League _will_ strike for the final time on Valentine's Day..."

            What does he know about this holiday?Did plenty of research on it, after all.The seasonal details are always important.

            "Which is named for Saint Valentine.There are multiple Saint Valentines, but we've already been shown one in particular.The painting that had been stolen depicted Saint Valentine of Rome.

            "And what do saints tend to be, in general? _Martyrs._ They suffered for the sake of their religious principles, John.More often than not, they ended up dead after refusing to renounce those principles.And Saint Valentine was a priest who got arrested for illegally marrying Christian couples.The Roman Emperor at the time offered Saint Valentine a pardon in exchange for renouncing his Christian faith.Naturally, Saint Valentine refused and was put to death for it.

            "So we're dealing with something that involves illegal marriage.What's an illegal marriage nowadays? _Same-sex_ marriage.There are civil partnerships, yes, which allow the same legal rights as marriage--but they're not marriages."Click.Click.Opening up a new webpage, then another, each one with support for his deductions."However, in the last few years there has been one major proponent of same-sex marriage who's responsible for transforming political favor into recognizing and legalizing..."

            Then John catches on: "Let me guess.Sir Augustus Moran."

            "Sir Augustus Moran, former Ambassador to Iran, is definitely the most outspoken and influential supporter.A fundraising gala takes place tomorrow, on Valentine's Day, held in his honor to provide funds for his advocacy group and other campaigns for equal rights.A man with a few enemies, probably, what with his popularity and others' scorn for same-sex couples.

            " _This_ is what he tried to conceal from me.Moriarty had me running around, trying to predict the next crime related to the _economy_ when the real target is _politics._ To be specific, someone entrenched in politics, someone with strong opinions about marriage equality.Our Saint Valentine of the modern era.

            "Even so, outright killing Moran would fail as a political statement.They'd be turning him into a martyr for his cause, which would only strengthen the movement.Can't go for a very cut-and-dry assassination, yes?Need to get rid of him _without_ emphasizing his personal beliefs, a lesson learned from Saint Valentine.Moran will die in the service of his beliefs, then, but seemingly by accident.Notby design."

            John just shakes his head, impressed, per usual.Makes sense, doesn't it?Too much sense?"But how would they pull that off, Sherlock?"

            "Well, I'd expect the League to show up and crash Moran's fundraiser under the pretense of an armed robbery.It's a private event at a hotel, likely simple to sneak into, featuring a key policy-driving figure.Should have plenty of _wealthy_ attendees from the business and political worlds, which makes them ideal targets.The League hitting a fundraiser fits with their anti-capitalist manifesto and the prior threats to show everyone how serious they are.A final subversion of the money-driven status quo.

            "In a fray of their own making, someone will use that as cover to take out Moran.His death will be called _unpremeditated murder_ , though, an unfortunate consequence of the robbery.He'll be mourned and the movement will be crippled without his leadership, but no militancy from his supporters will result. _Neat_."

            "There's no way to stop it from happening?"

            Sherlock laughs happily, reaching for his mobile phone."Of course there's a way to stop it.Let me call Lestrade."

            "Well, that's a relief."

            "Needless to say," he adds (with mean-spirited delight), "you won't be having your date after all.I'll need you to stay with me."

            "Uhm..."Suddenly, John's body language changes--skeptical, defensive, frustrated.What is it now?"No, I don't need to.If the League's going to hit the gala, then I'll already be there.On my _date_."

            For god's sake.Sherlock doesn't want to argue about the obvious."John, has it occurred to you that your date isn't what she seems?'Persephone,' she said?Probably some sort of code name."His thoughts darken by degrees, and his voice gets harder."She's a plant of the League's, of Moriarty's, for all we know.However you met her, it had to be an intentional ploy.She _intends_ to lure you straight into a trap--an assassination disguised as a robbery.Don't you _see?_ This is how Moriarty plays the game."

            But John says, "Oh, I see.You're jealous."

            At that, Sherlock can't believe his ears."Sorry, what?"

            And then John says, "You know, Irene called us a couple, but we're not _really_ a couple, Sherlock.I'm not obligated to devote all of my free time to you."

            "John, that's not the _point_.I'll prove it to you.Tell me, does your Persephone have red hair?"

            The tightening of John's lips... _yes_ , she does.Triumph.Now John should be much more understanding of Sherlock's reasonable concerns.

            Or not.

            "Do you realize this happens every time I get a girlfriend?"John bunches up the plastic bags in his hands.Compresses them.Trying to get rid of his restless anger."You always find something to object to.Either she's boring or she's ugly or she's--what, someone planted on me by Moriarty?"Shakes his head slowly, sadly.Disillusioned.As if he's seeing that Sherlock was a fool and a fraud all along."Do you have _any_ idea how farfetched that sounds?All because of her hair color?Her hair's natural, by the way, not that garish color we saw on the security footage."

            "But still _red_ ," Sherlock insists.

            "Look, the bottom line is that you just hate me spending time with anyone else who isn't you.You're always afraid that I'm going to get taken away from you--"

            When Sherlock tries to speak up, to protest, John just glares at him.It's so deadly serious, it sucks most of the air out of the room.Sherlock can't breathe (not in a good way).Just listens.John's sharpening inflection: angry, pissed off, other equivalents.

            Every syllable cuts deep when John continues."You feel the need to chase off anyone I get close to.So now I happen to meet a girl I really like, who isn't ugly or boring or anything else, and you figure she has to be evil.You can't make me paranoid, Sherlock Holmes.

            "I'm going to the gala tomorrow night and I'm going to have a good time and you won't get a say in the matter."Sherlock doesn't move, isn't breathing."Do you know why?"Sherlock's throat tightens painfully as he listens."Because you don't run my life, and we're not a couple.Even if we were a couple, I'd break up with you for pulling manipulative shit like this."Hurts."Jesus Christ, Sherlock."It hurts.

            Didn't know it could hurt this much. _Sentiment._

            Well, Sherlock did know.Just forgot.Allowed himself to forget.Allowed himself to enjoy it again--

            Now it's not fun anymore.Not a warm comfort anymore.Not something mysterious to think about at night, or to best preoccupy his idle thoughts.Was kind of a background hum to him, largely irrelevant, but nice enough when he had the time for it.His little secret: these warm, warming feelings for John.Now they're sharp as shattered glass and tearing him open--opening up his chest, opening up his heart.His defenses are ruined and it hurts.Really hurts.A real pain.A real gets-inside-of-him-and-tears-him-apart pain.He's nauseous.Wants to vomit.Tries to breathe, in and out.(The case is infinitely more important than this waste of time, _infinitely_.)Not helping, at all, still wants to vomit.Silently yells at himself for it.Screams inside.

            Stupid. So _stupid_.

            John doesn't even know.And John is _never_ going to know.

            After a moment of silence (mourning?), Sherlock gathers up his laptop, Moleskine notebook, phone, and a few reference books.

            "Sherlock..."An apology?No, don't bother.Don't.

            "Good night, John," Sherlock says quietly, and retreats to his bedroom.


	4. Part 4

* * *

            The following evening, John picks Penny up at seven just as he said he would.  They take a cab to the gala together, and he can’t stop looking at her.  She’s utterly gorgeous.  Not that she wasn’t gorgeous the day before, but tonight she’s done something to her eyes—the dark shadow above them brings out their color even more, somehow—and her hair pours over her shoulders in loose auburn waves.  The city lights glancing off of it make it shine all the more.

            “I’m so excited,” she says to him as they pull up to the venue.  “Thank you agreeing to go with me, John, really.  It’s so much better than staying home alone.”

            John peers up at the hotel building, at all of the well-dressed people milling around just inside, laughing and talking and enjoying champagne, and says, “Well, I’m glad you’re excited, because it looks like they’re all having a terrible time and we’ll probably be miserable.”  She laughs.  Nice to be able to make someone laugh.  He didn’t realize how much he needed this night out until now.  “No, I’m joking, of course.  Let’s go inside.”

            They go inside.  John brushes against someone in the atrium, but instantly forgets about it when he sees the party laid out before him.  The gala is as glittery and glitzy as it looked from outside, and the theme of Valentine’s Day romance is so prominent that it practically smacks you in the face, from the pink and red décor to the _hors d’oeuvres_ , quiches in the shapes of tiny hearts.  Penny was right, it probably would be miserable to attend this gathering without a partner.   Luckily, John doesn’t have that problem; what would ordinarily be complete overkill to him seems appropriate for the occasion, probably because of Penny.

            In fact, most of his enjoyment can probably be attributed to Penny.  Without her, John would feel entirely out of his depth among these wealthy, intellectual, famous people.  He’s intelligent enough to hold his own, yes, but even breaking the ice is difficult when you don’t know anyone, and especially—on a more superficial level—when everyone else is in stylish formalwear and your best suit is years old.  Penny’s disposition overwhelms any awkwardness, though.  She flits from guest to well-known guest, lavishing praises, digging around in her large purse for a pad and pen to get autographs without worrying about whether it’s socially acceptable to do so.  John tags along with her, watching her cycle through nervousness and admiration, introducing himself when appropriate and ending up engaging a couple of people he’s never met in conversation because of something thoroughly unexpected.

            Here, of all places, he didn’t anticipate hearing, “Oh, you’re _that_ John Watson?  I’m a huge fan of your blog!”

            “I had no idea you were _famous_ ,” Penny twitters after one such encounter, looping her arm through his.

            “I’m not.”  John sips from the glass of wine he’d picked up a couple of minutes before.  “I have no idea how this happened, I swear.  I just write a blog.”

            “Well, that was my favorite mystery author and he _reads_ your blog, apparently,” Penny says.  “I can’t believe I’m so out of the loop.  I should have Googled you before you came to pick me up.”

            “What, you’re not in the habit of Googling prospective suitors?”  She smiles at him, rewarding him with a flash of pearly teeth.  John briefly laments that it isn’t still Christmas.  He’d love to find some mistletoe under which to kiss her.  Valentine’s Day is supposed to be a day of romance, but it doesn’t offer as many convenient excuses for kissing.  “Don’t worry, I didn’t search you either.  We’re equally blank slates.”

            “Fair enough.  I still want to read your blog.”

            They retreat to a corner where they can talk amongst themselves, and John thinks the night is going rather well.  Penny giggles at the worst of his jokes and sometimes dares to lay her head on his shoulder affectionately during a lull in the conversation.  She’s taller than him in her heels, but she has a very unassuming presence that prevents him from being self-conscious.  It helps that she’s nearly tripped over her dress a couple of times, too.  John gets the sense that they’re equally graceless in their own ways, which makes him all the more comfortable around her.

            “I wanted to talk to Sir Augustus,” Penny says, gesturing with her own wineglass to a clump of people, “but he’s surrounded, of course.”

            “It is his party,” John says, trying to see if he can catch a glimpse.  The most he’s able to make out is Sir Augustus’ snow-white hair.  “Might have better luck later.”

            “Maybe.  I hope so.”

            “See if you can help me out with something, though,” John says, “because that guy looks familiar to me, but I can’t for the life of me figure out where I might have seen him before.”

            “That one?”

            “Yes, that one over there, talking to the woman in the blue dress.  I keep trying to place him.”

            “Oh, him.”  Penny squints, and then turns back to John.  “Yes, I thought so.  That’s Sebastian, Sir Augustus’ son.”  She sips.  “Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

            “Colonel?”  John frowns.  “Military, then.  Maybe that’s how I know him.  I could swear…”

            “Might be from the tabloids, too,” Penny says, her voice hushed.  “Colonel Moran was getting himself into all sorts of trouble a little while ago.  There was a lot of gossip about it.  Involved with a bad lot, apparently.”

            “What sort of bad lot?”

            Penny taps the side of her glass conspiratorially.  Her lipstick’s left faint prints upon the rim.  “Just bad, apparently.  Drinking, maybe, or gambling, or prostitutes.  No one ever went into more detail than that.  But he’s cleaned up his act now, or so they say.  Patched things over with his father.”  She looks back over her shoulder.  “Here, you can ask him about it.  He’s coming over.”

            John follows her eyes and notices that, indeed, Sebastian Moran is approaching them.  Instantly, he is seized with a sense of profound unease, the source of which he cannot identify.  There’s nothing outwardly upsetting about Moran—he’s tall and strikingly handsome, with keen eyes and a soldier’s bearing—but John finds himself on guard anyway.  He stands a little straighter, on the defensive.  Penny doesn’t seem to share the sentiment.

            “Colonel Moran,” she says, holding out her hand, “we were just talking about you.”

            “Only good things, I hope,” Moran replies, shaking her hand and John’s in turn.  He smiles, a sleek predator baring its teeth, and John, prompted by some chivalrous instinct, draws Penny closer.  Moran is undeterred.  “But it’s profoundly unfair that you know my name and I don’t know yours.”

            Jesus _Christ_.

            “Persephone,” says Penny, stammering slightly.

            “Persephone,” Moran repeats.  “Stunning.”

            John really doesn’t like where Moran’s eyes are going, so he interjects with, “I have a name too, actually.”  They both glance at him.  He backtracks a bit.  “It’s, um, John.  John Watson.  Pleasure to meet you.”

            Instantaneously, the scene shifts in John’s favor.  Moran’s surprised, pleased.  His smile broadens, softens around the edges.  “I thought you might be.  Recognized you from the picture on the blog.”

            “Everyone reads this blog,” Penny says quietly.  Her tone is reverent.  It elevates John.

            “You read my blog, too?”

            “I love it.  My father’s also a huge fan.  I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”  And then: “Is Sherlock Holmes here, as well?  From what I hear, you two are always together.”

            “No, he’s not here.”  John bites back his other objection (“we’re not _always_ together”) to keep from sounding too defensive.  In truth, he just feels guilty.  Sherlock had locked himself in his room the previous evening and was gone by the time John awoke this morning.  John hasn’t seen him all day.  He might still be sulking.  “I don’t know where he is.  On a case, somewhere.  I managed to get the night off.”

            “Extremely lucky for you.  If you’ll excuse me, I think my father’s calling for me.”

            “Oh, sure.”

            “Tell him thank you,” Penny adds.  “Lovely party.  Really.”

            Moran nods politely and leaves them alone.  Penny sighs as if she’s relieved, too, and leans a little closer to John.  “He seems nice enough.”  Her simper says, _He’s just like they said he was in the papers_.  “I think he was trying a little too hard to invade my personal space, though.”  She draws John’s arm around her waist.  “That should keep him back.”

            “I don’t know,” John says, but he likes where this is going anyway.  “You never know, with men like that.”  The encounter with Moran has left him a bit unsettled.  For the thirtieth time that evening, John glances around the room, but the only redheaded person in sight is sticking close to him.  And Penny couldn’t be—could she?  It doesn’t make any sense.  The crimes were all committed by the same five members, from what he and Sherlock had seen.  To perpetrate a robbery of this scale, the League would probably need that many, five or six.  But it doesn’t look like any of them have shown up.  Was Sherlock wrong, then, or…

            John can’t worry about it.  So far there’s been no sign of trouble, and hopefully it’ll stay that way.  He and Penny join the others as they shuffle into the room with the tables set up, the room where dinner’s being served.

* * *

            “You sure about this?”

            “Absolutely, so stop asking me,” Sherlock replies, pressing on the (pale, plastic) speaker earbud.  Uncomfortable.  Hates it.

            “I’d feel better if we could be  _in_ the room...”

            “Nope.  Too obvious.”  What’s taking so long?  “The League is just a hoax, and its membership isn’t the self-sacrificial sort.  They won’t act tonight if they feel in danger of being captured beforehand.”  He wants the League to act.  Wants to catch them in the act:  _in flagrante delicto_.  Once he has them, he’ll make sure they tell him everything they know.  New information about Moriarty: Sherlock’s willing to do a lot for it.  Their loyalty will break.  Very easily.

            “What about—”

            “None of your officers could mingle in here without attracting unwanted attention.”

            “Thanks for that,” Lestrade says, sighing in exasperation.  Causes the transmission to fill with static.  “We have a good record with undercover operations, you know.”

            “Because your targets are so painfully unobservant.”

            Lestrade doesn’t want to let it go, unfortunately.  “Is that right?  And what about you? Someone’s bound to recognize you,  _Hat-Man_.”

            “The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight.”

            Sherlock looks up when the grand doors at the front of the room swing open.  All right. It’s showtime.  To start with, he relaxes his bodily posture from head to toe.  Slides a hors d’oeuvre toothpick into his mouth (faint flavor of quiche).  Steps back until he’s about blending with the wall, not worth more than a glance, not the semi-famous consulting detective—just one of many lonely men on Valentine’s Day.

            _No matter how hard you try, it's always a self-portrait._

            “They’re coming in now,” he adds quietly, then goes back to seemingly minding his own business.

            Seemingly.  Everyone else’s business is his business: he watches the partygoers swarm into the posh banquet hall.  Nothing special conceals him from them—just a three-piece tuxedo and well-combed hair—but they’re too self-absorbed to see him.  So many vacant, smiling faces.  Laughter.  Love.  For the stench of money.  All of this feels a bit  _Bond_ , honestly.  What would John say?

            (it hurts)

            Doesn't matter.  So, about the partygoers.  Quite a few.  Sherlock wouldn’t recognize most of these people if he hadn’t gone through their records.  Political figures, business leaders, mainstream media moguls… and then the movie stars, sports heroes, tabloid journalists, fiction authors, at least one scientist (biophysics).  Bodyguards flicker in and out of the crowd, but they won’t be any help.

            Deductions stream through Sherlock’s mind, largely uninteresting.  A handful of serial adulterers.  Recovering and practicing drug addicts (prescription drugs, mostly).  Too many instances of tax and evasion to count.  A sample of blackmail, or maybe it's counterfeiting.  If only that man would remove his gloves…

            Conclusion: no one here would be willing to commit murder.  Or, well, no one here would be willing to murder Sir Augustus Moran.  As expected, Moriarty's client is not in attendance tonight.  (If there’s even a client in the first place.  Additional clues indicate such, but he’ll deal with it later.)  Only the ignorant sheep would voluntarily walk into this deathtrap.

            The first covert member of the League walks by, graciously showing a power couple to their seats.  Second: across the room, stationed by carts with the starter course of dinner.  Third and fourth: venomously berating each other about poor management of the cleaning staff and dirty windows.  Fifth: shadowing Sir Augustus Moran just as he should be, a hand rested on his partly concealed gun, reports coming into his own earpiece. Believable wigs for all to hide unnaturally colored hair.

            There should be a sixth member for tonight, though.  A civilian lookout.  Female.  Decided to bail?

            “No you see anyone suspicious?”  Lestrade is being annoying again.

            “Not as of yet,” Sherlock replies.

            Oh, and there she is.   He’s been looking for her:  _Persephone_ , dread queen of the Underworld.  John is walking beside her, his arm looped around her waist, a natural case study in elevated endorphin levels.  Must be having a wonderful night already.  Too bad for them.  Sherlock knows  _exactly_ what Persephone is.  Makes his blood run hot, even burn.  Can't confront her right now.  Maybe later.

            “What if they decide not to go through with it?”  Lestrade really can’t keep his mouth shut.  Behind him, tinny but unmistakable: Sally Donovan is giggling, openly flirting with someone.  Couldn’t be Anderson.  Anderson wouldn’t be with the stakeout team.  What's that about?  (Uh-oh.)  Trouble in paradise?  Little too much of the complimentary champagne?  “Or maybe, just maybe, you’re  _wrong_ and this isn’t where the League will strike next.”

            “I suppose we shall find out.”

            Sherlock peels away from the wall, a hand in his jacket pocket, chewing on the toothpick.  Drifts closer to the largest table: Sir Augustus Moran, his closest friends, and his most ardent (financially generous) supporters.  None of those people stand out to Sherlock, although one woman has a bad case of hemorrhoids.  Also apparently can't color coordinate to save her life.

            Then Sebastian Moran slips past Sherlock on the way to his seat.

            Can practically smell Moriarty’s aftershave on him.  Strawberries and cream.   _Knew it_ , Sherlock thinks.  The toothpick splinters between his teeth—biting down too hard.   _I knew it_.  Slight coppery tang of blood.   _I knew it…_

            Predatorily intent, Sherlock watches as Sebastian sits down.  Had been wrong after all: there  _is_ someone who'd willingly murder Sir Augustus Moran.

            His own son.  Sebastian.

            Sebastian Moran?  First and foremost, he’s rumored to be the bosom buddy of Jim Moriarty.  Otherwise, a devoted sportsman.  Skilled shot.  Author of a few books on hunting and wilderness survival.  Received a good education before he went and joined the military (rank: Colonel).  The details are frustratingly sparse, but something bad happened in Afghanistan that got him sent home, which ended a promising military career.  Something of a black sheep in the Moran family because of that, even though his father has gone on record to defend him.  Sebastian, not quite reciprocating the sentiment.  Very resentful.  That much is clear.

            Sebastian isn’t sitting with his father—just nearby, at his own little table.  For the image problems, probably.  But it’s the perfect angle for a sniper.  Perfect place for a murder.

            Sherlock remembers the sniper’s laser pointer dancing across John’s heart.  Remembers and keeps remembering and feels his blood run from hot to cold.  With icy calm, cold fury, he wishes that he had John’s gun, hadn’t left it behind.  Brought something else with him instead—and it's arguably more important.

            Checking his pocket, he brushes a fingertip over the cool metallic canister.  Good.  He's ready.  Now to wait.

            “ _Well?_ ”

            “Patience, Lestrade.”

            Around the room, the League’s embedded members decide they’re also ready to begin.  Two of them, a pretend waiter and a hotel manager, approach the front doors quietly and calmly.  Business as usual.  No one else notices when they shut the doors.  Or when they lock the doors from the inside.

            The trap is sprung.

            Sherlock slips out the earbud speaker, finally, and puts in a much more comfortable pair of earplugs.

* * *

            Sir Augustus Moran stands to address the attendees.  He manages three words—“My dear friends”—before all hell breaks loose.

            First: the warning shot, into the ceiling.

            Instantly: John’s senses go into overdrive.  Muscles tense.  Ready.  While others in the party try to figure out who fired the shot, he notices the wigs come off.  One, two, four—five.  Bright red hair.  The smell of gun smoke, distinctive.  Acrid.  A hundred voices raise a hundred questions, but one voice overpowers them all: “ _Hands above your head!  Down on the ground_!”

            John’s instinct is to disobey, to fight, but then he realizes that he can do nothing against five armed thieves, so down he goes with everyone else.  He ends up crouched behind a table, concealed, mostly out of sight.  Above his head, he hears another crackle of gunfire, and two of Moran’s bodyguards drop, shot in the back by the third, whose fiery hair is now on display.  More screams.

            “ _Silence_!”

            Silence.

            Pacing the center of the room is a man from the League, dressed as a hotel manager.  John tallies them in his head: that man, the bodyguard, a doorman (also male), and then the two women, one also dressed as a manager and one a cook.  They’d been here the whole time and no one had known.  John checks his side to find Penny on the ground with him, and part of his anxiety is dispelled.  She isn’t one of them.  That’s some small comfort.  She’s not anyone.  She’s good.  He goes back to watching the room.

            “You and you.”  The man in the center, presumably the leader, points to two people, one of whom is at the circular table next to John and Penny.  They stand, hesitantly, nervous, as they should be.  Something about them, though, the way they carry themselves… John sees it.  He’s sure no one else does, no one but the people in the League.

            The leader motions.  “Shoot them.”

            John knows it’s coming, so he prepares himself for the noise and the sight and the smell.  The first undercover operative goes down reaching for his gun.  The second manages to pull his before he falls.  When their bodies hit the floor, the thud is almost deafening.

            “See, everyone?  Your autocratic overlords thought they could fool us!”  The leader smiles, shakes his head.  “But you can’t hide from the League.  Now, we expect full cooperation from each and every one of you.  Is that understood?”

            Silence, still.  A couple of people nod.

            “Good.  Very good.  We’re going to come around with sacks,” the leader continues.  “When we approach you, put everything in the sack.  Jewelry, cash, credit cards, everything.  Do as we say and no one will be harmed.”

            The two women begin circling with large burlap sacks.  They’re starting on the far end.  That will give John time to—what?  Formulate a plan?  What use would he be?  Even if chaos does break out, as Sherlock predicted it would, John would only be able to take out one of the League members, at least until he got his hands on a weapon.

            “ _John_ ,” Penny whispers.

            “Shh, keep your voice down.”

            “John, look at me.”

            John looks.  Penny’s holding a gun.  For a moment, John’s heart stops—she _has_ been sent to kill him—until he notices she’s holding it the wrong way round.  Instead of pointing it at his head, she’s brandishing it for him to take.

            He blinks.  “What?”

            “I’m on your side, John.  Just take the gun.”

            Upon taking the gun, John sees that it’s a British Army L9A1 just like the one he possesses illegally, the one that’s sitting uselessly in his desk back in the flat.  Penny exhales, taking another much smaller pistol out of her large purse.  John wonders how she managed to sneak those past the security at the door.

            “Something’s going to happen to set them off,” she whispers.  “If they start firing, I’ll need you on my side.  Don’t shoot to kill, we want them alive for questioning.”

            “But who’s ‘we’?  Who are you?” he whispers back, glancing uneasily at the nearest League member, who appears unable to hear them.  “How did they not know you were here?”

            “I’m not officially in anyone’s books, so I don’t have a paper trail.  I’ll explain later.”  Penny disengages the safety.  Click.  The League members are too busy collecting their loot.  “Just be ready.”

            John nods.  He can go with this.  He’s done crazier things on a moment’s notice, in the service of—his pocket buzzes.  He’d put his phone on vibrate before Sir Augustus started speaking.  With a glance at Penny, he pulls it out slowly to check what it says.

            _Check other pocket_

            _SH_

            Mystified, John reaches into his other coat pocket, where he finds two pairs of earplugs that definitely weren’t there earlier in the evening.  Sherlock must be around somewhere.  He must have a plan.  Good.  That’s good.  John puts his earplugs in and hands the other pair to Penny so she can do the same.  From the floor, his phone vibrates again.

            _At first shot close your eyes_

            _SH_

            John shows the text to Penny, who nods.  In the room, then.  Sherlock’s in the room with them.  Good.  Three to five.  John likes those odds much better, and he has an idea of what Sherlock’s got up his sleeve…

            Then: across the room, somewhere near Sir Augustus’ table, a woman screams hysterically.  The earplugs muffle the worst of it.  The leader turns toward her and fires a shot in her direction.  John closes his eyes and covers his face.

* * *

            Sherlock throws the stun grenade.

            In an instant, everything disintegrates into blinding white light and deafening thunder. Feels like the entire room is shaking from the blast.  Doesn’t hear the worst of it thanks to these military-grade earplugs.  Darkly tinted eyewear (pulled on at the last second) protects his vision from the flash, while most people suffer the entirety of it.

            Innocents and the criminals both, completely discombobulated.  Thankfully John and Persephone weren’t affected as much; they’re disabling the League’s members, one after another.  Fantastic work.  –Shit, lost track of Moran somehow.

            Precious few seconds of light remaining.

            Sherlock launches over the banquet table and tackles Sir Augustus Moran to the floor.

* * *

            Stun grenade.  John knows one when he hears one.  How the hell’d you get your hands on that, Sherlock?

            Doesn’t matter.  What matters: take out the League before its members can recuperate.  John opens his eyes and springs up from behind the table, shooting the one nearest him before he’s even seen.  Right hand.  Kneecap.  Won’t be of any use now.  The gun jumps in John’s hand, but the rest of him remains steady.

            Beside him: Penny fires off two shots.  John scans the room for another League member, finds her blindly shooting into the crowd.  What she was told to do, no doubt.  Fires the bullet into her abdomen; she doubles over.  Hopefully non-lethal.  Can’t count on it.

            Three down, two to go.

* * *

            Not dead.  Neither him nor Augustus.  Sherlock leans away from the shouting, understandably confused old man.

            Twinge of burning pain along Sherlock’s upper arm (left), near his shoulder.  Oh.  (Ouch.) Apparently he did get hit.  Blood seeps through the fabric of his sleeve.  Not too bad, he thinks.  Just a scratch.  The assassin tried his best, and failed.  Must have happened while tackling Augustus.  Who is still shouting.

            God, shut up.

* * *

            John and Penny stand back-to-back now, looking for their targets.  The party’s turned into a battlefield.  John’s never felt more alive.

            “I got another one,” she yells, and he hears her, but barely.  “Last one must be on your side.  Can you see him?”

            John scans the room, cold and calm.  No, no… last person, last redheaded person, where are you?  No, no—there.  Standing by Sir Augustus’ table.  The false bodyguard.

            He notices John the moment John sees him.  Still blinking, still disoriented, the bodyguard raises his gun, finger on the trigger, hand shading his eyes.  On instinct, John shoots him in the throat before he can fire first.

            “Sorry,” he says to Penny.  “I think that’s it.  I think that’s all of them.”

            Penny lowers her pistol.  With their backs pressed together, he can feel her sigh.  The entire shootout took less than a minute.

* * *

            “Father!”

            Sherlock helps Augustus stand up from the floor.  The banquet hall looks like a bomb went off—people strewn everywhere, a row of broken windows, tables and chairs overturned—which is more or less what happened.  Stun grenade.  Very powerful.  Worked like a charm, at least.  Bouts of groaning, griping, crying.  Numerous threats to call one’s lawyer.  The more stubborn people stumble around, or try their best at it, uncoordinated and in one piece.

            Not everyone got away unscathed, however.  Numerous injuries, a few of them on the grievous side: Sherlock can smell blood.  (Surprising number of gunshots went off.  Didn't need that many to hide the assassin.  Sherlock hadn't expected that many; if he had, he would have let in Lestrade.  The League planned for a lot of collateral damage, then.  Moriarty's hallmark?  Jesus Christ.)  Two dead undercover operatives—not from the Met, of course.  Government men.  Mycroft isn’t going to be pleased.  At least a majority of the League isn’t dead.

            Yes, oh yes, Sherlock wants to corral a survivor and find out what they know about Moriarty.  By any means necessary.  Lestrade would only get in the way, so Sherlock hopes that he just stays outside.  Can hear the Met yelling and banging on the front doors.  Trying to get through.  Will use a battering ram, soon.

            But Sebastian Moran appears at his father’s side, distracting Sherlock again.

            “Father,” he implores, evidently panicked and sickened, “are you all right?”

            Oh, what an act.  Bravo _._

            Augustus coughs multiple times, thumping his chest.  “Yes, I think so.  Had quite a fright, and I’m dizzy as anything, but I’ll be fine.  Really brought me back to my days in the army!”

            “Thank God,” Sebastian says.  Sighs.  Just so relieved.

            But Sherlock is done playing this game.  “Where is it?” he asks.  “What did you do with it?”

            Stiffly, Sebastian turns to look at him.  ( _Got you now, Sebastian Moran_.)

            “With what?”

            “The gun.”  At the continued blank look, Sherlock growls, “The handgun with which you attempted to kill your father.”

            “What—”

            “Couldn’t have hidden it very far.”  Sherlock squints more.  Looks down at Sebastian’s hands.  No powder burns on his skin, of course.  “You’re not a complete moron or else he wouldn’t have given you this assignment.  You wore gloves when you took the shot, then disposed of them and the gun after—”

            “Mr. Holmes, what on earth are you talking about?” Sebastian asks, incredulous.

            “Don’t waste my  _time_ , I know what you are.  Tell me where you’ve hidden it!”

            “ _Mr._   _Holmes_ ,” Augustus says loudly, speaking over them.  Trying his best to be diplomatic despite obvious confusion.  Nothing more than a sentimental father with an easy-to-manipulate heart.  Has no idea that his progeny is connected to the most dangerous criminal mastermind in Europe.  “I am extremely grateful that you protected me, probably saved my life, but I can see you’ve suffered a great shock.  You don’t know what you’re saying—hell, neither do I.  But I do know one thing, Mr. Holmes.  My Sebastian has had his troubles, but he’s a good man now.  He wouldn’t do what you’re saying he did.”

            Sherlock wants to protest, but he can see that it won’t get him anywhere.  At least he has confirmation: Sebastian Moran is under Jim Moriarty’s control.  Good enough.  For now.  With any luck, he’ll find the gun.  And there’s the League: to be interrogated.  All things in due time.

            “Come, Father,” Sebastian murmurs, gently taking Augustus’ arm.  “I’ve called for emergency services, and I want you checked out when they get here.  As for you, Mr. Holmes, I’d strongly suggest the same.  Get that head of yours looked at.”

            “Mind your manners, son.”

            While Augustus and Sebastian hobble away, Sebastian looks back over his shoulder at Sherlock.  And then Sebastian smirks.  A knowing, preying, alarming, mocking, taunting, infuriating smirk.  Sherlock feels his insides curdle.

* * *

            Lestrade’s men break down the door not long after the bodyguard goes down.  Sherlock, who’d somehow found his way to the front of the room with Sir Augustus and Sebastian Moran, calls to Lestrade: “You missed quite the party, Detective Inspector.”

            “No thanks to you,” Lestrade calls back.  “What the hell happened?  Looks like a bloody tornado came though here.”

            From there, it’s business as usual, policemen scurrying left and right to see to the victims and tidy up the mess.  John’s barely shifted since the shooting stopped, though.  Everything feels so incredibly surreal, as if all of time and space that’s _not_ the battlefield is moving in slow motion.  He must have set the gun down at some point, because he isn’t holding it anymore.  Eventually he comes back to himself, steps back into himself again, and that’s when he turns around to talk to Penny.  Or—he means to talk to Penny, but he ends up just staring at her for a long while.

            “So I guess your name isn’t Persephone after all,” he says eventually.  For the life of him, he can’t figure out what else to say.

            “I’m sorry,” Penny replies.  She smiles at him, but it’s a sad, pinched smile, the smile of someone who also can’t figure out what else to say.

            “No hard feelings.”  John shrugs, even though his feelings seem to be carrying on well enough without consulting the rest of him.  “You were just doing your job, right?  I can’t be bitter about that.”

            “You absolutely can.”  Penny gathers her hair in her hands, tying it back behind her head in a bun.  “You could’ve been killed.  But my orders were that I needed a cover, someone to bring to this event who wasn’t an agent—for obvious reasons—I mean, you saw what happened to them, someone sniffed them out.  So I had to take a less conspicuous date.  If it helps, you came highly recommended for being able to keep a cool head under pressure.”

            “Recommended by whom exactly?”

            “I’m afraid that’s classified.”

            “Oh.”  John sighs, almost laughing out loud but not because this is funny.  If it’s not one Holmes brother leading him into a deathtrap, it’s another.  “Oh, of _course_.  Mycroft.  Should have known from the name, the Greek name.  He likes those.”

            Penny just smiles at him sadly again.  He wishes she’d stop doing that.  It makes him ache a little on the inside now that all of the adrenaline’s fading away.  “If it’s any consolation, I was having a really good time before.  Genuinely.”  Her shoulders are lightly freckled.  John didn’t notice that before.  They’d been covered by her hair.

            “Well, that’s… good.”  For lack of anything better to do, John puts his hands in his pockets.  “Still, I’m guessing there isn’t going to be a second date.”

            “No, I don’t get a lot of time off.”  Penny plays nervously with a loose strand of hair, trying—unsuccessfully—to tuck it back into her bun.  “But if that changes, I’ll let you know.  You’ll be the first person I call.”

            “I do appreciate that.”

            “And speaking of calls, I should really be making some phone calls and getting this sorted.  My boss is going to want me to report in.”  She hesitates, then leans forward and kisses him on the lips, just briefly.  He’s mostly too surprised to react, but manages to think clearly at the last minute and catch her wrist to prolong it a little.  When she pulls away, she just looks sad.  He wishes he hadn’t seen that.  It’s got him thinking of what might have been.  “Happy Valentine’s Day, John Watson,” she says quietly.

            Then Persephone Jones walks past him and out the door and out of his life entirely.

* * *

            As always, Sherlock has to have the last word:

            “What will you do, Sebastian?”

            Sebastian slows down, losing his smirk.  “Excuse me?”

            “When Jim finds out that you’ve failed tonight.”  Sherlock arches his eyebrows curiously, feigning innocence.  Cold fury on the inside.  “What are you going to  _do_?”

            Sebastian stares hard, as impassive as a brick wall.  Doesn’t even twitch once.  Probably a decent gambler with that poker face.

            “If you ask me,” Sherlock says as he smiles derisively, “it might be best to go down on your knees and beg for mercy.”

* * *

            John Watson is so determined to help with the cleanup that despite the fact that he, like most of the others, is supposedly “still in shock,” one of the hotel staff finds him a first aid kit so he can help the paramedics.  Most of the gala attendees aren’t seriously injured, just scrapes and bruises, so a little antiseptic and a bandage or two go a long way.

            The odd thing is that Sherlock isn’t up and about.  John expects to see people crawling all over him—Lestrade’s people and the press—but he’s nowhere to be found.  Couldn’t have been seriously injured, could he?  John heard him talking to Lestrade before.  Where on earth could he be?

            John eventually finds Sherlock back in the dining area, sitting alone at the long table meant for Augustus Moran and his closest friends.  He approaches gingerly, remembering how well their last conversation had gone.  A shattered wine glass crunches under his shoes, which should alert Sherlock to his presence, but Sherlock doesn’t move.  “You okay?”

            “Hm?”  Sherlock glances up at his face, then away.  “Oh, yes.  Fine.”

            “Fine.”  No, what’s that—a splash of red on his left arm.  John’s brain screams _injured_ , but it’s overreacting.  He hopes.  “No, wait, no you’re not.  What’s that?”

            Sherlock shrugs, raises his eyebrows.  “I got shot.  Not a big deal.”

            “Not a big deal?  _Sherlock_.”

            Sherlock just shrugs again.  John pulls a chair up beside him and sets the first aid kit on the table.  Strangely, Sherlock doesn’t look at him even then, instead staring out at the room.  “I was wrong,” he says eventually, “about Penny.”

            Oh, that’s what he’s so upset about.  Of course.  Should have known.  “Only half-wrong,” John says, gently laying a hand on Sherlock’s uninjured shoulder.  “I mean, she _was_ a plant in the end.  Just one of the good guys.”

            “Mm.”  That doesn’t seem to cheer him up.  “I knew as soon as I saw her that she was one of Mycroft’s.  Really should’ve known as soon as I heard her name.  Exotic name, _Greek_ name, his girls love those.  This is just another instance of my dear brother going over my head to point me in the right direction.  Must have worked out the League’s intended purpose ages ago, planted an agent, roped you in, tipped me off.”  Sherlock sighs, long and shuddering.  “Pathetic.  He’s still angry with me for keeping Irene Adler’s phone.”

            “Well, you couldn’t have known about Penny.  I mean, not been absolutely certain.”   John’s running out of ways to reassure him.  “Moriarty might know about Mycroft’s name thing.  Could have been a bluff.”

            “Could have been.”  Sherlock’s heart isn’t in it.  He looks down at his hands.  After a moment, he says, “You know, if you want a chance with one of the prettier League members that got arrested, I won’t come between you.  Or any others.”

            John inhales.  So it’s _this_.  Sherlock’s still sore about what was said yesterday.  To tell the truth, John can’t blame him.  To divert, he opens with: “You know, I was thinking of asking that one girl out, but then I had to shoot her in the stomach.  I don’t think she’s too keen on me now.”  When that doesn’t get a response, he clears his throat.  “No, Sherlock, I’m sorry for what I said yesterday.  It was—well, it was too harsh, and I apologize.”

            “Even the ravings of a lunatic have a kernel of truth to them.”

            “Oh, shut up and let me have a look at your bloody arm.”

            Sherlock quiets down, slips off his jacket, unbuttons his vest and bloodstained shirt, and slides his injured arm free.  John notices that the wound, even though it’s bled quite a bit, is incredibly shallow, and he begins dabbing at it with a clean cloth and antiseptic.  “You got lucky,” he tells Sherlock.

            “Timing, not luck.”  Sherlock rolls his arm and winces from the combination of stinging alcohol and cool air on bare skin.  “I knew what I was doing.”

            “No, you didn’t.  That smashed window could easily have been your skull.”

            “Or Sir Augustus Moran’s, but we’re both fine.”  For the first time, Sherlock manages to crack a smile.  “Look at us, John.  We’ve both had our Bond night.  Tuxedos and mysterious women, interrupting an assassination attempt.  Not bad for our first big case in a while.”  John laughs a little as he bandages up the wound, but Sherlock continues, “It’s not over.  I still have to figure out who Moriarty’s client was.  I have an idea, but…”

            “You need to eat first,” John says firmly.  “I’ll tell Lestrade he can have us both tomorrow, but I’m keeping you tonight because I’m pretty sure you haven’t had a bite to eat in three days.”

            Sherlock tries to act innocent of the accusations, but his growling stomach betrays him.  John frowns, and Sherlock says, “I can’t imagine the caterers here will be any use to us.  I… may have called ahead to Angelo’s, asked him for a table.  We could eat there.”

            “You know…”  John’s smile is unmistakably organic.  It comes from someplace deep inside of him, some perpetually bright spot that’s hard to extinguish even when he and Sherlock are fighting, or when he’s just lost a really sweet girl.  “I’d like that,” he says, and means it.  It’s all right if it’s just them at the end of the day.  He thought it might not be, but it might, actually.  It just might be.  “A lot.”

            Sherlock’s own smile takes on a more genuine hue.  “Great.”

            And it’s here, right here, that the look lasts a little too long.  John doesn’t chalk it up to anything special.  He just gets distracted sometimes, that’s all.  Right now, he’s trying to figure out the exact color of Sherlock’s eyes.  Over a year and he hasn’t done that yet, but it’s not his fault.  Sherlock’s eyes are ever-changing, as tempestuous as the man himself.  They look bluer in this lighting than they do back home.  “Well, let’s go,” he says, snapping the first aid kit closed.  “Put your shirt back on.”

            “Good idea.  Don’t want Angelo to remove me for bleeding all over the place.”  Sherlock does up his buttons again and readjusts his jacket.   “Shall we?”

            “Sure.”  John helps him up.  Sherlock teeters a little on his feet.  He needs to get hydrated before they go anywhere.  One of the paramedics can probably spare a water bottle.

            “… So, does Mycroft really have a security force made up entirely of beautiful, nameless women?”

            “Why do you ask?”

            John shrugs.  “I was wondering how I could get a job like that, that’s all.”

            Sherlock stares at him, and says, in all seriousness, “Be Mycroft.”  But he can’t maintain that façade for very long.  He cracks first, giggling, and then John starts laughing, and that’s how they go, laughing, John’s arm around Sherlock’s waist, supporting him, out into the night.


	5. Part 5

* * *

            The great thing about killing people for a living is that you know all the best places to dispose of bodies.  Abandoned buildings, car parks, landfills, rivers, whatever.  Part of the art in murder is making sure the corpse isn’t found until you want it found.

            That’s how Sebastian knows the perfect spot for his suicide.  Nice, empty house right in the middle of London.  Garage door closed, no one else around—just him and his sweaty palms glued to the wheel of his car, the throaty purr of its engine temporarily silenced.

            He hears carbon monoxide poisoning’s a good way to go.  Like falling asleep.

            Honestly, Sebastian would have preferred a more violent death, something dramatic.  Death at the height of life, a sudden snipping of the thread before its time.  Death like in a  _Hemingway_  novel, maybe, at the mercy of a bomb—his head flying one way, his torso another, his left leg yet another.  Death like three bullets to the chest,  _bang bang bang_  in rapid succession.  Sebastian Moran would like to die the way he’s lived: recklessly, carelessly, messily, violently, and without remorse.

            But losers don’t get to choose their deaths.  Sebastian had gone all in and lost, big time.  Now he needs to rid the world of himself quietly, without making more of a mess than he’s already made.  And this should be easy to clean up, right?  No bloodstains.  Jim’s men could dump his body anywhere with little effort.  Hell, they could probably still get some use out of the car after they wipe it down.  Nothing else will be ruined, not by him.

            He leans forward, resting his forehead on the steering wheel.  Inhaling deeply.  Sebastian isn’t frightened by death, no.  The possibility excites him, the reality unnerves him, but he’s not  _afraid_.  What scares him even more than death is what James Moriarty must be saying right now.  He must be ready to explode, if not exploding.  Sebastian blinks, his eyes pricking with moisture, just imagining what must be going on—Jim shouting orders, telling someone to clean up this mess, waiting for Sebastian to report in so Jim can cut him up, put him down, like an animal—

            Animal,  _animal_.  What he is, what he’s always been.  Flashback: his mother shrieking when she found him washing the blood off his hands after he killed the neighbor’s dog.  (Fluffy little bitch, making too much noise, didn’t deserve to live anyway.  Snapped so easily in his hands.  Wanted to see if he could do it, just wanted to  _see_.)  He was twelve.  Mother and father, frowning deeply, as they carted him from doctor to doctor to get his head shrunk.  Had to be a good boy from then, hide it behind good grades and books and  _acceptable_  pursuits like hunting, but nothing was enough.  Finally: send him to the army, that’s where he should go, that’s where he’ll get disciplined.

            But Jim Moriarty—a sigh, a shuddering sigh in the present tense, and Sebastian closes his eyes again.  Jim Moriarty had been the only person to penetrate him, to strip away his layers with one flicker of his eyes and  _uncover_  the animal underneath.  And Jim hadn’t frowned, no, he had  _embraced_  it, and then gone deeper (deeper, deeper,  _please_ ), to strip him down harder (harder, yes,  _Jesus_ ), all the way to his bones… and tamed him, stroked him, and built him back up again.  Sebastian always had problems with authority, but he never had problems with Jim.

            “We’ll have a celebration when you get back,” Jim said before, nipping at Sebastian’s neck for luck.  Smelled like strawberries and cream.  Fruity.  Sebastian always teased him about it.  “A real party, just us two.  You like the sound of that?”  Sebastian nodded, and Jim added, “Then don’t be  _late_.”

            Jesus.  They were supposed to spend Valentine’s night together.

            Sebastian licks his lips, then wipes his mouth off with his hand.  It’ll be easier, he tells himself, like this.  Easier for him, easier for Jim, easier for everyone.  More honor in quietly offing himself than living with his failure.  That’s what Jim will see, now, every time he looks.  Failure.  Sebastian can’t bear to think of it.

            With shaking fingers, he reaches for his phone.  He’d turned it off after he left the gala—GPS tracking would have led Jim’s men right to him.  Doesn’t matter now that he’s made up his mind.  By the time they find him, he’ll be sleeping.  He does want to be found, though, before he can cause any more trouble, before some curious widow makes a fuss.  He turns his phone back on.

            Four voicemails.  Sebastian sucks in dry air.  What the hell was he expecting?  Might as well have a last listen.  Might as well hear his boss’ voice one more time.

            He holds the phone up to his ear.  Holds his breath.  Listens.

            “Where are you?  Did you get caught?  Your father isn’t letting you pull away for one measly second to drop me a line?  Choose your favorite excuse and check in.  Now.”

            That’s it.  He skips to the next one.

            “Just received the debriefing from someone who  _isn’t_ you.  Heartbreaking precedent, Sebastian.  You might as well have jilted me at the altar.  And you know that I know that you’re still out there somewhere.  It’d be glorious if I could speak to my Chief of Staff about tonight.  At some point.  As in now.   _Right now_.”

            “I’m sorry,” Sebastian murmurs, voice wavering.  “I really am.”  Next one.

            “Hide-and-seek isn’t very much fun, darling.”

            Oh, God.  Sebastian covers his mouth to keep from sobbing.  He’s so sorry, he’s so so—last one.

            “Oh, I know what this is  _about_.  Let me guess:  You’re sitting in your car, in an underground lot, trying your hardest not to weep like a babe, wondering if you should end it alllll right now rather than face Jim Moriarty’s black wrath.  Is that it, precious?  Hm?  How close am I?  Carbon monoxide poisoning?

            “You can bloody well stop it.  I’m not angry with you about tonight.  But I  _am_ rather offended, Sebastian.  I’m offended that you think ‘winning’ and ‘losing’ is dependent upon whether or not you got to off your dear old father.  Nothing is ever that simple—and it’d be pretty boring if it were.

            “Tonight was merely a test.  A test for Sherlock Holmes, you see, and he passed with flying colors.  As his reward for being the hero, he’ll have Sir Augustus Moran singing his praises to anyone who will listen.  Couldn’t possibly play out any other way.  Imagine it: this very powerful, influential man talking about how Sherlock is an asset to society and blah-de-blah-blah.

            “It’s what I wanted to happen.  Just that.  Would’ve been so disappointed otherwise.  If Sherlock Holmes isn’t already a household name, he’ll be one by tomorrow.

            “Do you  _get_  it yet?  I’ve made him into a star, Sebastian.  He’s going to twinkle so so brightly, everyone looking up to him.  Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are… people make wishes on stars.   _Dear Sherlock_ , please oh please get rid of all the bad people!

            “But Sherlock is going to fall.  Eventually.  A shooting star—the higher you are, the harder you fall.  It’s all part of the  _plan_.

            “I didn’t tell you beforehand so you’d give it your best tonight.  You did as I asked, so now it’s time to stop being a cowardly piece of  _shit_.  Come here to Daddy, precious, and bring my favorite chocolates with you.”

            Click.  A mechanical voice informs Sebastian that if he wants to erase this message, he should press “7.”  He doesn’t want to erase it.  He just hangs up.

            Swiss chocolates.  Jim Moriarty likes Swiss chocolates.  Sebastian wonders if there are any shops open this late, if they have any.  Could probably find someone, somewhere, still selling.  Sebastian leans back in his seat, cherishing his life, and then gets out to open the garage so he can drive away from this and forget it.

* * *

**The Case Files of Sherlock Holmes**

* * *

**The Red Revolution: Closed case**

* * *

Update:Surprisingly didn't take much effort to discover the League's benefactor.Two aliases were involved: 'Duncan Ross' and 'Vincent Spaulding'.Money wired in from separate offshore bank accounts in the Caribbean.Traced back to the same man whose activities I've been following for years - he's a prolific murderer, thief, and forger.  Cleverly used his standing to conceal evidence, but finally he was a bit betrayed by his true master Moriarty. 

Confrontation with the benefactor went as expected.He tried to assume complete deniability.Claimed it was outrageous slander.Threatened me with high-powered lawyers unless I recanted.Well, allow me to make myself perfectly clear:

John Clay, you are a common criminal.

Approving the League to strike your father's jewelry emporium might have seemed like a good move.However, being a victim hardly makes you an innocent. You've been skimming money off of your father's bank accounts for years - in his old age, he entrusted them to you.It's with this money that you funded the League.Motivation: You consider Sir Augustus Moran a prime political rival.Rumours of him running for election in the future, that couldn't be good for you.Additionally your beliefs are in conflict: you're a self-admitted bigot about homosexuality.In a fit of childish pique, you sent the initial threats to Sir Augustus Moran in early January.They went ignored when you didn't follow through.Sometime afterwards Moriarty approached you... and offered you a deal that you couldn't resist.I'd love to hear the details.

If you want to take this to court, then I shall see you in court.The evidence is all there, black and white, clear as crystal. 

Conclusion:You lose, _sir_.

Case closed.

* * *

**The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

**The Valentine Deception**

Sherlock had written up some notes for this case, but they were taken down almost immediately because of legal issues, and Sherlock was angry about it but neither of us wants to get sued.  I suppose it’s up to me to explain what happened on Valentine’s Day in a way that won’t get us into trouble.

So, first we ▓▓▓▓▓ with ▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓ and then we ▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓ and then after a lot of running around we went to dinner.

No, you’re going to get a little more than that.  I just wanted to mess with you all for a second.  You know how people tend to talk…

A few weeks ago, one of our government contacts called us in to have a look at some letters.  They were just these sort of generic threats, and even though I thought we should investigate Sherlock seemed to think they were beneath him, of course.  He thinks he’s above the ‘boring’ cases.  Anyway, we left it alone.  People send empty threats all the time, don’t they?  I wasn’t expecting it to come up again.

But it did come back up, in a series of crimes leading up to Valentine’s Day.  The first was a robbery at a high-class jewelry store.  A couple of days later, the jewelry was found by a nun, and soon after that a painting was stolen from a church.  The painting was found by a nice old couple in their candy shop, and soon after that several major candy warehouses were cleared out… I think you can see where this was going.  One thing led to another.  Someone was leading us on a bizarre scavenger hunt across London.

That wasn’t even the weirdest bit, though.  The robbers were caught on camera and left all sorts of propaganda at the scenes of their crimes.  They called themselves the Red-Headed League, and they definitely looked the part.  Even though their faces were hidden, they were easy to identify because they all had this fake-looking red hair.  That would be strange enough, but the group literally did not exist before they started with this crime spree.  And I don’t mean that no one had ever heard of them before, they literally didn’t exist anywhere, even on the Internet.  This bothered Sherlock almost as much as their crimes did, I think, to have a group spring up out of nowhere.

The stolen candy was dumped in a park.  Before, the pattern had been obvious – nun pointed to church, candy store pointed to candy warehouses – but Sherlock could not figure out what the park meant.  Valentine’s Day was coming up, and he was sure that they were going to pull off something big, but what?

In the meantime, Sherlock was so busy thinking about the case that he hadn’t eaten for days, so I ran out to do some shopping.  At the store, I ran into (actually ran into) this amazing girl named Penny.  She was really beautiful and very funny and we hit it off right away.  This is relevant because she invited me to a gala held by Sir Augustus Moran that would take place the next day, the evening of Valentine’s Day.  We talked for a bit and got coffee and then I went home feeling a lot less, well, tense.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, could instantly tell that I had a date and was getting ready to chew me out for it when he had his huge epiphany. I didn’t really follow all of it, but basically it boiled down to that the League was a red herring (Get it?  Red hair ring?  Like a crime ring?) and that their motivations weren’t anti-capitalist at all, but political, and they were going to crash the banquet and have Sir Augustus Moran assassinated and make it all look like a big accident.  He thought Moriarty was behind it, too, because Moriarty has a way of playing like this, so the wordplay would be right up his alley.

Well, he had me pretty convinced, until he brought Penny into it.  He said that I absolutely should not go out with her because she was probably planted on me by Moriarty.  He even brought up her red hair, which didn’t seem valid to me because it was real red, not fake like in the videos.  Truth is, I probably wouldn’t have been all that angry except that every time I find someone I like, he finds something wrong with her.  It’s always something.  This time, he just took it one step further.  We got rather cross at each other and he went off to his room and I didn’t see him the entire next day.  I decided I was going to the gala anyway because I thought Sherlock was just being a bit of a jealous bastard.

Penny and I went to the gala and we were having a really good time.  I met a lot of very important and famous people who apparently read this blog, so if you’re reading this now, hello, it was very nice to meet you.  It seemed like the evening would happen without any sort of disruption, until we all went in for dinner.  That was when the League struck.

Just like Sherlock said they would.

At first it looked like the whole thing was going to be a disaster.  The League shot the bodyguards and two camouflaged government agents, then started collecting jewels and money from all of the guests.  While we were crouched down, Penny revealed herself to be another agent, just more secret than the other two, and asked me to back her up.  I said yes, and that’s when I got a text from Sherlock, who had hidden himself in the room.  He’d slipped earplugs into my pocket earlier, apparently, and told us to close our eyes so we wouldn’t be disoriented by what he was going to do next.  Meanwhile, someone screamed – probably a plant of the League, so they had an excuse to open fire on the guests.

Well, that’s when Sherlock provided enough of a diversion for Penny and me to take out the League.  I’m not going to go into detail about what he did because it was probably illegal, but it worked.  Penny and I managed to disarm the League members, and Sherlock tackled Sir Augustus Moran before he could get shot himself.  The bullet meant for him grazed Sherlock’s arm instead.

But that was that.  The police showed up and took care of everything from there.  Sherlock was convinced that because of the trajectory of the bullet that struck him, it couldn’t have been fired by any of the League members, but instead by ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓.  However, he couldn’t prove it, so he ended up leaving it alone.  I treated his arm, and then, since we were both starving and deserved a treat for preventing an assassination, the two of us went to dinner.  With each other, since Penny had to go and do damage control.  Lestrade had a lot of questions for us in the morning.

But he wasn’t the only one.  Sherlock had been caught on camera saving Sir Augustus Moran’s life, so a press conference was called to celebrate him.  Sherlock loved that, of course, and by ‘loved that’ I mean was incredibly put out and had an enormous headache afterwards.  Sherlock wasn’t put out because of the press conference, though, but because he’d figured out that the person funding the Red-Headed League and thus the assassination, that is, Moriarty’s client in this case, was ▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓.  We met with ▓▓▓▓, who was sort of a smarmy bugger, if I’m being honest, and he essentially laughed in our faces and told us we couldn’t prove anything.  The problem was, we couldn’t.  In fact, people close to us even told us not to proceed unless we wanted a major scandal.

So Sherlock was in a bad mood, which was made even worse by the constant calls from journalists all clamouring for an interview with him.  Eventually I had to turn off his phone and hide it from him so he wouldn’t throw it out a window.  If you’re wondering where we were this week, that’s where.  We were lying low after what happened and waiting for it to blow over.

It seems like it’s blown over enough, so I’m finally writing up our versions of the events.  I know that mentioning Moriarty’s name causes some of our fans to automatically go berserk these days, and there will be a lot of speculation as to who funded the League, and I honestly don’t want this to drag out any longer.

As for Penny, I probably won’t be able to see her again, but that’s all right.  Sometimes it just doesn’t work out.

**12 comments**

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*Comment deleted*  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 26 February 16:03

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Sherlock, you can’t say that, we don’t want to get sued, remember?  
 **John Watson** 26 February 16:04

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*Comment deleted*  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 26 February 16:05

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No, seriously, shut up.  
 **John Watson** 26 February 16:06

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And I’m very disappointed that you chose to elaborate so much on the real red herring.  Penny was ‘this amazing girl’?  Girl?  Just how old was she, John?  Didn’t get a good look at her - you should have introduced us.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 26 February 16:08

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He always did like the young ones.  
 **Bill Murray** 26 February 16:09

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The last thing I need is you two ganging up on me.  
 **John Watson** 26 February 16:11

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My age is classified Mr Holmes.  
 **Penny J** 26 February 16:12

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PS John x  
 **Penny J** 26 February 16:13

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Good to hear from you. xx  
 **John Watson** 26 February 16:14

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Young love, isn’t it just precious? xxx  
 **Anonymous** 26 February 16:15

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No.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 26 February 16:16


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